


if brokeness is a work of art

by lonely_is_so_lonely_alone



Category: Coronation Street
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 05:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6740227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonely_is_so_lonely_alone/pseuds/lonely_is_so_lonely_alone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The glass shatters again. Again. The blood on her cheek. Again. He doesn't sleep.</p>
<p>- Nick in the aftermath of Monday's episode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if brokeness is a work of art

**Author's Note:**

> If brokenness is a work of art,  
> Surely this must be my masterpiece.
> 
> \- Sleeping at Last, Neptune

The glass shatters again. 

Again. 

The blood on her cheek. 

Again. 

He doesn't sleep. 

….

It's raining outside, he can hear it tapping on the window; 

tap tap tap, 

like the seconds ticking away from him. 

He gets up, knowing he can't stay by her side a moment longer. 

He needs to tell her. 

He needs to,

but he doesn't.

…

He goes for a run as soon as the light begins to bleed from the sky -- 

the regularity of his feet on the ground bringing the only stability he has left. 

He runs and runs and runs,

and it's almost like he's trying to run away, 

but he's not sure why. 

….

The street is quiet in the early morning. 

No one awake, 

no one at all, 

nothing except his thoughts, pulling him down and down: 

that vicious cycle he told the doctor about. 

He is alone,

until he isn't. 

…

She's sitting on Maxine's bench and for a moment he misses her -- 

for a moment she's just a memory replaying its self in his mind. 

Leanne. 

(just like old times, eh?) 

He waits on the edge, his breath coming in jagged gasps. 

Then he takes a step forward. 

… 

He's so tired. 

Sometimes he just wants to shut the world out. 

He takes a seat next to Leanne and closes his eyes. 

Neither speak. 

For a second he can see her just as she was when they first met; just a kid, like he was; 

sometimes he wonders when they grew up. 

Maybe they never really did?

… 

“Can't sleep?” she asks.

“No,” he replies. “You?” 

She shakes her head then, the darkness slipping away around them. 

“Living alone,” she says. “Haven't done it for a while,” 

He nods this time, the glass shattering in front of his eyes again. 

“How long is it now, till...?” she asks.

“About three weeks,” he says. 

“I'll change my name, if you want. I doubt you want two of us knocking about.” 

She laughs then, bringing back memories of a hundred sun rises he spent with her. 

They don't speak for another few heartbeats; 

just sit together in the early morning chill. 

“I'm sorry,” he says.

“I'm sorry,” she says too. 

… 

He stands few seconds later, the sun drowning in the clouds above them -- 

and he runs, 

he runs away again. 

…

He doesn't sleep the next night, the day fraught with worries of unknowing,

with worries that he should tell Carla,

that she deserves to know.

Yet he does not say a word, 

and when morning calls, the darkness dripping away inch by inch, he runs. 

He's not expecting her to be there again, yet part of him is. 

This time her knees are drawn up the chest, eyes shut. 

Everyone is quiet. 

…

“What happened?” he asks. 

“Simon,” she says, her voice full of humourless laughter. 

“Nightmares?” he asks.

“Bitch, aren’t they?” 

They sit as the day fades in, until the street comes alive and he runs. 

…

It becomes a routine: 

finding each other in the early morning light while the whole street sleeps. 

Conversations that run the dangerous line of what they should say. 

He tells her things he should be telling Carla, 

all with some stupid excuse that Leanne, she can take it. 

It would break Carla, that's it isn't it? -- 

and he's already broken Leanne. 

…

He stands by the window, watching the rain seep from the sky. 

He runs regardless, pounding his rhythm on the concrete to the same beat as the rain. 

She's not on the bench, but then again the street is drowning in water. 

He doesn't blame her. 

So he just runs, all the things he wanted to say going round in his head. 

…

It's David who notices, 

the younger brother just looking out for him. 

He asks why, 

why haven't you told Carla, 

why tell Leanne, 

why this,

why that. 

He does not know why. 

He doesn't want to think about why. 

So he runs. 

...

She's waiting on the bench a few days before his wedding, 

the light still hidden in the sky. 

It's not cold but her arms are wrapped around her. 

"Are you okay?" she asks, though he thinks he should ask the same. 

"I'm fine," he says. 

"Have you told Carla?" she asks.

"No," he says.

"Why?" 

Neither say anything. 

She wants to, he can tell that, but she doesn't. 

The light falls onto the day and for a moment he doesn't run -- 

he just sits. 

...

Carla asks about it next, 

wanting to know why he goes on these early morning runs;

she doesn't realise that he's not sleeping.

So he just mumbles something about getting fit 

about needing the exercise. 

David's talked to her, 

he can tell.

Her voice is hiding something, 

something just at the tip of her tongue that she not sure if she should say. 

She waits, 

waits

and waits 

and then one morning, 

as the light fractures through the curtains 

she turns to him. 

"Leanne," she says

like an accusation,

but he just continues to tie his shoelaces, 

the glass breaking again in his mind's eye. 

"What about her?" he says,

and that's when the arguing starts. 

...

He's sure they can all hear it, 

all the neighbours, 

they're shouting so loud. 

Carla wants to know, 

wants to know why he's been meeting up with her.

He just wants to know who told her

even though it has to be David, 

his little brother only looking out for him. 

He leaves, 

though he should stay, 

the moonlight still edging its way out from the cracks. 

...

It gets around -- 

(whispers about affairs or money or lies) 

none of them right, 

but then again,

whoever thought they would be?

Carla finds him again at the Bistro, 

Leanne by his side, 

and then all hell breaks loose, 

...

Surprisingly, Leanne doesn't seem to know; 

the gossip hasn't got to her yet, 

but she knows now, 

as Carla shouts and screams,

about everything she's ever had being taken away from her by this other woman --

Paul and Peter and now Nick, 

and Leanne just stands there, 

and denies all charges, 

but who'd believe her? 

(just swap Carla for Peter and haven't they all seen this before?) 

But this time 

this time, 

have they made the same mistake? 

((no...?))  
...

The darkness fills the air as he takes a seat at the bench. 

Its the wrong time of day, 

the wrong day kind of day if he's being honest. 

She comes later, 

and he knows it's a bad idea 

and that's when he wonders if Carla was right.

He was having an affair, 

just there was no sex, 

just talking; 

words he should've been sharing with his fiancée,

but he didn't share them with her, did he? 

…

He sits in the darkness of her kitchen, 

the time ticking away. 

His phone rings somewhere in the quiet.

He doesn't pick it up. 

“I'm sorry,” he says again. 

“Why?” she asks.

“Carla,” is his reply.

“I deserved it, I guess,” she says.

“You didn't,” he says.

She laughs. 

They sit for hours, talking about nothing and everything 

and then the sun bleeds through the curtains and morning comes. 

…

“What have you done?” 

His mother, his brother, everyone asks the same questions. 

He tries to tell them, but the whole world seems to be deaf. 

Carla certainly won't listen. 

She's too busy trying to find out why he did something he didn't really do. 

“Why her?” his mother says, 

“Why is it always her?” 

He's left thinking the same.

....

“You can fix it,” Leanne says, the bar between them. 

His turn to laugh. 

“You can, Nick; you love her.”

“When did loving someone,” he says, “mean it was going to work?”

A pause.

A beat.

“Didn't work for us, did it?” His voice is horse, quiet. 

Maybe she misses it. Maybe she ignores him. 

Maybe -- maybe she just can't answer. 

Either way, she doesn't reply.

…

He runs without purpose now.

No one to waiting on a bench, no one waiting at home too. 

His whole new life stopped before it could begin. 

Carla has told him; 

told him how she slept with Rob. 

He called her all kinds of names, 

but most of all, he couldn't believe the hypocrisy of it all. 

How could Carla stand there and accuse Leanne of taking everything away from her when she managed to do it so well on her own?

He runs to get away. 

…

Carla goes. 

She leaves --

walks away from everything. 

So he's living alone. 

He hasn't done that in a while, has he?

He sleeps even worse now, 

and he wasn't sure that was even possible. 

He lies there and thinks through every mistake he has ever made. 

(and there are a lot) 

...

“Are you happy?” 

There's a bottle of wine on the table between them. 

It's half empty. 

The Bistro is closed, everything quiet. 

They sit across from each other. 

“I don't know,” he says “I thought I'd feel worse.” 

She picks up the bottle.

She pours them more wine. 

She laughs.

He laughs.

…

So he runs and runs but in the end, he always finds her. 

Leanne


End file.
